


Preludes

by theherocomplex



Series: Guitar and Video Games [1]
Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2012), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series, Prelude
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 23:03:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2043597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theherocomplex/pseuds/theherocomplex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years of wonder, ten years of plans. </p><p>Ten years of dreams. </p><p>A collection of short ficlets pre-dating the main GaVG fics, covering the ten years between the start of the 2012 series and "Suspended Animation".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude: Trials and Errors

**Author's Note:**

> Note: some of the Preludes deal with possible triggers -- these will be noted. 
> 
> "Prelude: Trials and Errors" deals with light body horror. 
> 
> Chronologically, this Prelude overlaps slightly with the events of "Rise of the Turtles".

The O’Neil family is special. So are the Liangs in Hong Kong, the Ericsons in Los Angeles, the Milyukovs in the Ukraine, the Blancos in Rio de Janeiro, the Rooneys in Londonderry, and the Anyidohos in Ghana. Something in their cells speaks to the earth, fertile and fecund and as clean as salt. The Kraang need this. They need it to die, or to at least be turned to their ends. These families keep the earth safe, though they don’t know it yet.

The trick is to blend these families together. Get the main genetic lines plied into a few thick strands, so there aren’t so many loose ends to clean up. Yes, that means the power is concentrated, but it also means there’s less chance something will be missed. No stone unturned, no chance not chased down into the mud and torn apart for its answers.

Their results are rarely as expected. A genetic line may march along cheerfully for generations, predictable, dependable, and just as the Kraang think they’ve gotten it right, the line will throw out a sport. Instead of the empathic, world-encompassing truth-sense they need, they get a little girl who’s made of stone, a boy who bleeds ice and can talk to trees. They take the rejects, because maybe in their mistakes the Kraang will find the path to what they need.

The children who survive are preserved, set to sleep in warm golden fluid, in case they’re needed. Waste not, want not.

But six hundred years is a long time to work, and to wait, and the Kraang are giving up hope that the one they need will ever be born when humanity itself gives them what they’ve been seeking.

The day Kirby O’Neil manages to fall in love with the middle daughter in the Rooney family on his own, every Kraang tastes the relief. Even Kraang Prime is delighted. No subtle manipulations this time; their two most promising genetic lines came together on their own.

If the Kraang believed in Providence, they might have given a prayer of thanks. Six hundred years and more the Kraang have played at gods with the human race, and finally, finally, they have what they need.

When Mrs. O’Neil gets pregnant — and yes, the Kraang let it happen naturally, because they meddled a great deal with her when she was a child and she’s still delicate, a fragile cream-and-rose-and-gold flower that must be coaxed into bloom — they take her. They snatch her up as she walks home from the library, and they peer inside her at the sweet pink bulb growing in her uterus.

Only three months along and oh, this one is promising. Even now it glows with potential, sense-tendrils binding it to the earth. It’s the most hope the Kraang have had yet. If they can replicate this, twist it to their ends — they may finally be able to plow the earth under the wheels of their great machines.

 _Patience_ , they counsel. _Careful with this one. She’s special._

They prick the child with hair-fine needles, watch her twitch and flinch, and wait.

And wait.

Sixteen years, and then they make their move. She’s beautiful. Under their gazes, she glitters, all promise and potential. A pity about the mother. It would have been lovely to have a spare — but the Kraang don’t bother with regret, not when the child blossoms before them. And they still have the father, after all, and there are two other Rooney sisters.

Time enough for those plans when they have the child safely tucked away. Oh, yes, she is so beautiful. They can’t wait to trace her nervous system, and begin the great reverse engineering that will bring the earth between their teeth. Such a shame the child won’t survive.

 _Take her, take her now_. Even her terror is delicious. The Kraang enjoy the little frisson along their tentacles, and reach out for her.

Something heavy lands behind them, and they smell — the _mutagen_.

This could be a problem.

The child’s eyes widen, her terror suddenly spiced with wonder, and the Kraang shudder as the first set of blows rain down on them. Green limbs and shouts fill the street.

There’s determination under the heady adrenalin and confusion, a spark that threatens to turn into a slow flame.

No, this won’t do at all. Not at all.


	2. Keeping the Blade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anger is a weapon that all too easily turns on its wielder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place shortly after “Monkey Brains”. April is 16.

This child, Splinter decides within seconds of seeing her for the first time, will not be helped by meditation. What has been a refuge for his sons, even at their most restless or unsettled, will do nothing for April O’Neil. 

He is prepared to let go of this first impression. Indeed, he would be glad to do so, for that would mean she has found much-needed inner balance. She is full of rue and woe, with bitter currents of anger seething beneath her exhaustion. By the time April has begun to come to the lair regularly, it is clear to Splinter that she does not truly rest, nor allow herself a moment’s peace, though she hides it well. 

She hides it well enough that even Donatello is not aware of it, blaming himself for her outbursts when she snaps at him. 

Unconscious camouflage, so artless that Splinter is perversely relieved. If April were already capable of such meticulous artifice, then the gentler aspects of her soul would be lost. And while April is certainly able to draw blood with a handful of words, she does not do so out of malice. 

So the child is not lost, but she is wandering: a lonely, furious near-orphan, who even now looks at every out-stretched hand with suspicion. Splinter does not blame her, even when it is his own hand she rejects. He mourns her loss of trust, and tells himself he cannot save her. She must save herself. All he can do, all he  _should_  do, is give her the means to do so. Whether she turns those means into tools or weapons is her choice. He hopes she will choose the former, so when her battles are over, she may turn to kinder work and quiet joys. 

The precise method of his assistance takes time to develop — though perhaps it should have been obvious from the beginning — and it is only through an old, old habit that he is given the answer. 

***

April has been coming to the lair for nearly two months when Splinter realizes he is talking to Tang Shen again. He has not spoken to her in years, beyond brief glances at their family portrait. Their silent conversations guided him through the first lean years, when he lived each day in a panic that his four dependents, as he called them then, would be lost through some calamity, and he would have to bear that grief as well. 

 _Dependents_. How long did it take him to call them what they truly were? 

Tang Shen’s sweet voice guided him.  _They are children, no matter what they look like, and children need three things above all: patience, guidance, and love. These things may take many forms, my love, but you have them all in abundance. After all, did you not show them to me, many times over?_

She was right. Tang Shen was always right, just as Tang Shen always told the truth, and always loved him. 

So Splinter turns to her once more, when he is again at a loss, faced with another bewildering child. A girl, no less, and he cannot bear the thought of one more lost daughter. He kneels in the dojo, long after his sons have gone to sleep, and waits until the blue clouds of incense have surrounded him before he summons Tang Shen’s face. 

It takes time. He wants to see her as she was when she lived, never more than a breath away from a smile and laugh, even at her most dangerous. Their family portrait captured her beauty, but none of her life. Splinter needs what little of that life remains in his memory, so he waits, patiently, until he feels her once more at his side. 

 _The poor girl,_ she says at last.  _Her mother is lost, her father has been taken from her. You know what you have to do, Yoshi. Teach her._

Splinter huffs in surprise.  _What good will our art do?_ he asks.  _It will not give her family back to her. At best, it will give her a way to fight, and I am not sure she is ready to do so._

In memory, as in life, Tang Shen’s laugh is both sly and joyful. If Splinter imagines she smells like peaches and steel, then that is merely a reflection of Tang Shen as she was when she still lived, and no one can fault him for finding comfort in that. 

 _Oh, Yoshi,_ she says, still laughing.  _Don't be a fool. Your family has been hers for some time now. And there is space here for her father too, when he is returned to her._

 _"Our_  family," he says out loud, for is she not still his wife? Are they not still as one, though he is -- what he is?

Tang Shen's fingers squeeze his arm. She is pleased with him; he can sense her smile under the sweep of her hair.  _Our family,_ she agrees.  _Teach her our art. A dam may hold for years, but the river will be free someday. Give her a way to control the flood when it comes._

The memory of her hand and scent begins to fade.  _Isn’t that what we did for each other, my love?_

Her laughter fades last. Splinter finds himself alone in the dojo, his body wreathed by blue smoke, his nose filled with incense. 

Tang Shen is right. April must be taught. 

*** 

The incident with the doctor gives Splinter his point of introduction: April’s unique sensitivity must be explored, understood, protected. She agrees readily enough, though with a spark of that not-quite-disrespect that so often sets Splinter’s teeth on edge. There is a whole history measured out in that moment, a history in which Splinter reads April’s impatience and how thoroughly she has been indulged. She has put her hand to many things, and given almost all of them up when she did not find the challenge she hoped for. 

She does not expect that this training will be any different. 

So, after his invitation, he wants until she comes to him to begin. It is not enough that she be curious, though her interest is vital. No, April must also be  _invested_  in the process. These are the coins in which she shall repay Splinter: her time, her attention, and her focus. She has been indulged long enough to have forgotten  _value_ , though Splinter knows she has learned to reckon  _cost_  quite well. 

It takes April two weeks to come to him. The night is quiet and humid, the last of such nights for the year. Splinter’s sons have disappeared on patrol, the bright crackle and flare of their energy dimmed by the necessity of their task. Without them, the lair is too silent, full of a stillness to which Splinter still has not become accustomed. Fifteen years of always finding one son or other underfoot has ill-prepared him for being by himself. He misses them, the same way he imagines bread misses butter. 

After his sons leave, April lingers in the laboratory, pretending to work on homework, though Splinter feels her frustration mount with each passing moment. She likes attention, she likes company. Her studies cannot provide the former, and are poor substitutes for the latter. 

Splinter avoids the laboratory. He ignores it as if it had been amputated from the rest of the lair, and meditates until he feels a hand slipping into the crook of his elbow.

 _Tonight,_ Tang Shen whispers, her voice sweet as wind over the sea.  _She will come. Are you ready?_

Splinter is ready. 

He makes tea and sits at the kitchen table to drink, listening for April’s footsteps. In between sips, he contemplates the next day’s training. Michelangelo has become lazy and graceless of late, too happy to let his brothers win a fight so long as he makes them laugh. Tomorrow, Splinter shall practice alone with him, and leave no room for clowning. 

April’s footsteps come toward the kitchen, pausing frequently. Her frustration still flickers, but through it, Splinter tastes the bitter herbs of her reluctance, the stone-dust of her anger. 

He pours a second cup of tea, and waits. 

The tea is still hot when April finally comes into the kitchen. The high color in her cheeks and the glitter of her eyes do not give away any of what Splinter knows she is truly feeling. He allows himself a moment of contempt for those above to whom April trusted her story, who returned that trust with only scorn. April’s trust has become such a fragile thing, bird bones and ancient glass. And now, in the safest refuge left to her, April chokes and stumbles when she must ask for help. 

“Master Splinter?” She waits in the doorway, choosing her words, then plunges heedlessly ahead. “You said — lessons?” 

She is strong, Splinter thinks approvingly, with something more than mundane affection stirring within him. Her soul is buttressed with the kind of subdued resilience that is so often mistaken for pliability; she may bend, but only ever through her choosing. She will do well, very well indeed, when she is no longer ruled by anger and fear. 

Instead of speaking, he smiles and holds the second cup of tea out to her. 

*** 

April lays traps for him, every step of the way. Some of them may even be intentional, for it will be much easier for her to stop trying if she feels he has failed her, rather than the other way round.

This is the seventh lesson Splinter has given her, and April’s patience has begun to ebb. Basic exercises already bore her; she twists and fidgets through meditation. Today, she has not even changed into proper clothing, and stands before him him in her usual boots, shorts, and shirt. In the insolent cant of her hips and arms, Splinter sees the trap: April wants him to send her away, so she has an excuse not to return. 

He does not say anything as he shepherds his sons out of the dojo. Donatello lingers in the doorway to give April a wide smile and two thumbs up before Raphael drags him away by the tails of his mask. April waves after Donatello, a half-smile on her mouth that disappears like mist on a river when Splinter turns his attention to her. 

It is so easy to fail and let self-doubt soften your fall; so easy to stay afraid, and never allow oneself to face the chance of success. 

 _If I succeed now_ , April’s posture tells Splinter,  _then I will have a reason to keep hoping. My hopes are always destroyed. Let me stay as I am._

That is the one thing Splinter cannot do, no more than he could do so for his own sons — no more than he could do so for Tang Shen, nor she for him. 

Instead of commenting on her lack of preparation, Splinter merely stands in front of her, hands behind his back, and nods. 

“ _Hajime_!” 

April’s eyes flash, a quick stutter of defiance, before she raises her hands. She does not say  _hai, sensei_ , but she never has, not once in the hours they have spent together. The title — one that his sons gave him without questions — is one April wants to make him earn. Splinter keeps his face impassive and ignores the fire-and-oil burst of her temper. 

Within moments, it is clear that April’s heart and mind are nowhere near the dojo. Her movements lack all grace; there is no force behind her blows. She does not even watch her own hands as they move, and her steps are as loud as rocks being thrown down a mountain. It is an affront to the art he is trying to teach her, but Splinter is not insulted. He feels the echoes of her pain, the longing for her father a fresh wound beside the never-healing ache for her mother. More than that, he understands her pain, for as much as he loves his sons — and he loves them enough to die for them, to  _live_ for them — he had another family that he loved just as much. A family that was stolen from him, and that is now lost to the world but for his memories and a single photograph. 

He comprehends April’s anger, and how it leaves her vulnerable, for he himself has felt that anger for longer than she has been alive. 

If they had more time, he would let her anger burn itself out. He does not have time; she is a child at the center of a war, and she must learn to be a soldier. 

All tempers, like all horses, must be broken, though the phrase is one Splinter has always cordially detested. He does not wish to break April of her temper, but he must shatter its hold over her. 

It must be done quickly. 

He puts aside any remorse for his cruelty, and slaps her hands away. April gasps, shocked from carelessness by his gesture, and stares up at him with wide eyes. 

“Are you playing a game, Ms. O’Neil?” he asks, with condescension frozen into every syllable. “Do you consider our art a joke?” 

She blinks, then shakes her head. 

“No?” He stares down his nose at her. “It seemed to me that you thought so, after watching your kata.” 

“Master Splinter —“ 

“Were I in your position,” he adds, still staring down at her, “I would have more respect for the skills that saved your life.” 

He feels shame burrow into her mind, like a wasp’s sting, and waits for her response. April does not keep him waiting long. Her anger swarms up. She bares her teeth.

“Well, maybe if you’d actually  _teach_  me something, I would!” she snaps. “How is any of this —“ She throws an arm behind her at the dojo. “How does it help me get my father back?” Her hands ball into fists, the knuckles white almost at once. “How does  _any_ of this help? I need to  _fight_ , not meditate and practice kata for three hours a day. I need —“

Splinter stays silent as she stops herself before she can finish her sentence. April fights to calm herself, breathing hard through her nose and blinking away angry tears. 

 _So close, Yoshi_ , whispers Tang Shen.  _She must let this out. Give her a target._

“You know what? Screw this.” April makes a sharp, scornful noise in the back of her throat. “It’s not going to help. Nothing helps.” She rubs her eyes with her fists. “I’m going home.” 

Before she gets more than a step away, Splinter calls her back. 

“Ms. O’Neil!” 

She waits a half-second before turning to face him. Her mouth is a hard, thin line. If she walks out of the dojo now, she will never come back. 

“If you would like to fight,” he says, taking care not to soften his tone at all — if anything, he makes it a challenge, drawled out in as careless a voice as he can muster — “fight me.” 

April laughs, in pure shock. “Fight — you?” She laughs again, recovering quickly. No, Splinter was not wrong, she is adaptable, she is strong, but this fury must be bled out of her. “Really?” 

“If you land one blow, I shall admit my error, and advance your training.” He holds up a finger. “One blow.” 

She has set many traps for him. Now he sets one for her, and watches the cold calculation flicker through her eyes. The challenge is transparent; she would have to be a fool to mistake it. 

April O’Neil is no fool, but she is also sixteen years old. She believes, underneath her anger and misery, that she is immortal, that she is never wrong. So she steps up to him, and raises her fists. 

“Okay,” she says, and throws her first punch, all her weight behind it. 

Splinter is already not there; he is an arms’-length out of reach. He watches her steady herself, and evades her next blow just as easily. 

Within moments, she is sweating, working harder than she ever has before, with the light of wounded pride in her gaze. Splinter steps, waits, steps again, always out of reach. 

It is not enough. Her temper is not yet hers. He must help her rule it. One final blow is needed. 

“You are not  _trying_ ,” he says, almost sneering, and April rushes him with wild eyes. 

“I’m trying as hard as I can!” she pants as she misses him. “You don’t get it! No one does! My dad is gone!” She throws another punch without looking, and comes nowhere near Splinter. 

“And how do you think you will save him?” Splinter shifts a step to the left, watching April twist and nearly fall as she turns to face him. “Like this?” 

“I don’t know! I don’t know what to do! The Kraang — they could be  _killing_ my dad,  _right now_ , and I can’t do anything!” She is weeping, great gulping sobs as she stumbles after him, still swinging. “It’s not fair! I have to help! I have to — I have to do  _something!”_

April screams. One last blow, as clumsy as the rest, follows before the echoes of her cry have begun to fade. 

Splinter catches her wrist easily. She is exhausted, and too busy crying to notice the sound of her hand meeting his at first. 

An instant later, she freezes, staring at his hand, mouth hanging open under red, streaming eyes. 

He hears Tang Shen’s frantic shout.  _Now, Yoshi!_

It takes barely any effort to sweep April off her feet, a spare flick of his tail. She hits the ground hard. Her breath leaves her in a wet rush, and she lies stunned before curling to her side, crying into her hands. 

“I don’t know what to do,” she moans, over and over. “I can’t lose my dad, too. Then I’ll be alone and — and —“ Her voice dissolves into helpless, ripping sobs, and the monstrous cruelty of what he has done to her smothers Splinter. 

 _Show her, my love,_ says Tang Shen. Her voice is so close she could be whispering in his ear.  _She is ready._

He kneels beside April, and lays a hand on her shoulder. It is a sign of how great her exhaustion is, how deep within the bone she has carried it, that she does not resist or brush him away. 

“April,” he says, his voice for only her. “My child, you are not alone. Let us help you.” 

 _Us._  Himself, his sons. They are her family now, and they will help her rebuild. They will teach her to fight, and they will be a safe haven, where she can shelter away from the war. 

“How?” she gasps. “It’s all so —“ 

“I know,” he says heavily, for he does know, and his heart aches with the pain in both their souls. “We shall find a way, together.” 

April blinks up at him. “Really?” she asks, pitiful and lost. 

Splinter does not think twice before he gives her his promise. “Yes. They will not win.” 

She gasps again, nods. Her eyes are bright, guileless. And at last, they are trusting. 

When her sobs have faded to slight hitches in her breath, Splinter helps her to her feet. 

“We shall meet tomorrow,” he tells her, with his hand still on her shoulder. “And truly make a beginning. Now, go, and rest.” 

She nods again, and makes a stiff, formal little bow even as she wipes her nose with the back of her hand. 

“ _Hai, sensei_ ,” she whispers. 

*** 

There are hard days ahead for them all. Splinter knows this, tastes it on the wind like the promise of rain. His children walk a strange, dark path, shadowed by faithless evil at every turn. He prays that they are ready. 

His only comfort is that they are not alone, and neither is he. 


	3. Holly, Yarrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the day of reckoning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after the GaVG ‘verse’s “Fungus Humongous”, so April is 17 and Donnie is 16. After this ficlet, GaVG is no longer canon-compliant. 
> 
> Holly represents hope, and yarrow represents unending love. 
> 
> On Tumblr, someone anonymously asked: “OOOOH my gosh, could you write a drabble taking place during the “talk” that April had with Donnie after Fungus Humoungus? I have the urge to read it and weep.”
> 
> …never say I don’t give you anything, fandom.

April comes into the lab without knocking or even calling his name. The creak of the door opening is all the warning Donnie gets that she’s here for a reason, not just to check in or to visit. He fumbles the beaker and flask back into their holders and shuts down his burner, ready with a smile when April finally reaches him. 

Easy enough to deduce that she’s come straight from school; she’s still got her backpack on, still smells like tile and icy wind instead of herself, and her hair crackles with static electricity. Donnie has to stop himself before he starts fussing over her, asking her if she wants tea or a blanket or soup, he can make her soup if she wants —

“Hey,” he manages, hoping his smile looks brighter than it feels. It sits crookedly on his face. She doesn’t smile back, and Donnie flushes and looks away. One word into the conversation, and he’s already messed everything up.

“Hey,” April says, slipping her arms out of the strap of her backpack and letting it drop to the floor with a thunk. “Good day?” 

As a matter of fact, it wasn’t. Raph went on another tear about Donnie trying to blow them all up — and really, it was just one tiny explosion, barely enough to singe the tails of Donnie’s mask, and Raph wasn’t even anywhere  _near_  the lab when it happened — but Mikey joined in before Donnie could apologize and get Raph calmed down, and once the two of them teamed up, it was all over, just yelling and name-calling and fingers being jabbed into his plastron. And then Leo had tried to defend Donnie, and then Leo and Raph started arguing, so Donnie closed himself back up in the lab for the afternoon.

He hoped April would stop by, or at least text him to complain about her teachers, but now that she’s here, giving him one of her searching, too-focused looks, a cold spot starts to grow in his chest. 

“It wasn’t too bad,” he hedges, shifting in his seat. Instinct warns him to get up and move, but he’s rooted in place. 

April arches an eyebrow. Donnie hears what she’s about to say before she opens her mouth, like a reverse echo, and forces himself not to clench his hands into fists.  

“I know it’s crappy to just spring this on you.” April sits down heavily on her stool and looks at her hands. “But there are things I should have —“

He stops her before she can say anything more with a nervous, shrill laugh that bursts out of him before he can force it back down. The laugh shatters in the space between them, and April’s face twists, regret and frustration pressing her mouth into a flat line. And it hurts, being able to read her expressions so clearly, but that’s his own fault, for always watching her so closely. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. For the laugh, and for watching her, and for being himself — for being something that needs to have the truth spelled out to him, even if he’s known it all along. 

He’s known better almost from the beginning. 

“I know you have a crush on me,” April says. When she looks up, her eyes are hard and determined. There’s a line nicked in between her eyebrows, and Donnie wonders how sweet it would be to smooth it away with his thumb before he banishes the thought. There’s never been a time or a place for those thoughts, these dreams, but he’s allowed them anyways. 

Not anymore. April is still talking. 

“And I don’t…feel that way about you.” 

Donnie has to give her credit; she doesn’t look away until after he does. She gives him that much, even as the cold spot in his chest spills out into the rest of him, ice water instead of blood, right down to the tiny capillaries in his toes and fingers. It’s one thing to know. He’s always  _known_. He’s had this thorn in his side since the words  _guys, look at that!_ left his mouth. 

_Hearing_  it, though. The thorn isn’t really a thorn at all, it’s a slender, secret knife, and it’s twisting. 

“You’re my best friend,” April says. “You’re — you saved my life, Donnie. I can’t lie to you. We’re just friends.” 

As if anything about April has been a  _just_  for him. Donnie stares at his hand, curved over the edge of his desk. His thick, clumsy, strong, heavy, green hand. His  _stupid_  hand. 

“It’s not like that,” he says, taking a stab at lying. It’s worked for Mikey in the past, and Raph, and even Leo, maybe it’ll work for him. 

But April just tilts her head, almost smiling at him, and Donnie shrinks in his seat. 

“You didn’t tell me what you saw after you got hit with those spores, Donnie.” She leans forward, puts herself in his line of sight. “You didn’t have to, I —“ She taps her temple. “I felt enough,” she finishes, and Donnie sighs, dismay and relief pouring through him. He can barely handle thinking about what he saw, what he  _felt,_ the pressure on his shell growing as April’s voice snarled and curled through him,  _you’re a freak you’re a loser you’re nothing to me you’re a failure you can’t get anything right_. It’s bad enough she knows. It’d be beyond heartbreak to hear April describe those moments. Those wounds have just started to heal over; it’s asking too much to hope they won’t scar, but he hopes. 

Hope is all he’s got. 

But she knows now, and he folds up his hope and puts it away. It’s just like pruning branches. Cut off what’s dead and dying so what’s left is healthier, stronger. Wiser. 

It’s like burying part of himself. He shovels soil on top and stomps on it. May the roots wither, may the leaves fade. 

With his entire body ice-cloaked and aching, Donnie still manages to raise a hand and wave at himself. The question has to be asked, so he can be sure. It’s important to be accurate. 

“It’s because of this, right?” He waves at his body again, the walls of shell and plastron closing around his ribs, crushing the words out of him. 

He regrets asking as soon as April frowns, honest confusion clouding her features. Oh, this is even worse than the mutant thing — she doesn’t want him for  _him_. He’s been judged as a person, and been found wanting. 

_You’re not good enough. You’re a failure. It’s not your body, it’s your mind that doesn’t stack up, Donnie, and there’s no way around that. No retromutagen for your soul._

Mercifully, April doesn’t reply, just holds his gaze again, steady and quiet, waiting for him to talk. 

“I can stay away for a while,” she offers after he’s been silent too long. “If that makes it easier. I — I’m sorry I didn’t say this sooner, Donnie.” 

April could have lied to him, and said she was sorry for not loving him, but if she had, she wouldn’t be April, and he wouldn’t have loved her to begin with. It’s a closed circle. Donnie can’t see a way out. He may be sixteen, and he may be a monster and a failure on top of that, but he’s still a genius, and he knows his own heart. April’s his template. If there’s ever anyone else, they’ll be measured against her, small and angry and harsh and tired, and beautiful because of all of that, and they’ll be found wanting. Just like him. 

It’s not much different than being damned, really. 

She sits on her stool, barely moving, barely breathing, for a long time. He doesn’t say anything, because all he wants to say is some horrible combination of  _why not_ or  _I love you_ , and he can’t say either of those things. Never can, never will. Finally, April picks up her backpack, and makes her quiet way out of the lab, closing the door behind her. 

Donnie stares at his hands for a long time. He’s got no one to blame for how he’s feeling, except himself. 

After all, he knew better. 


End file.
